


The Final Game Continued...

by rexthranduil



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: John!whump, M/M, Male Slash, Moriarty is an ass, Sherlock!Whump, Slash, but eh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:08:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/rexthranduil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You have a choice Sherlock," Moriarty smiled at the world's only consulting detective, "of course, I don't think you're going to choose the right option, are you?"<br/>Set just after the finale of season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Game Continued...

"You have a choice Sherlock," Moriarty smiled at the world's only consulting detective, "of course, I don't think you're going to choose the right option, are you?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and fixed Moriarty with a contemptuous stare which would have made a lesser man wither; in fact it may have made any other man except one who was ever so sociopathic as one Jim Moriarty run away and cower in the shadows. His mind was travelling at speed which most likely surpassed that of light; perhaps he could one day develop an experiment to actually test the speed of a brain wave, interesting. He was trying to think of a way out for himself and his dear doctor who was looking at him oh so expectantly with that same look on his face that Sherlock could imagine him wearing when he was out patrolling in Afghanistan. Sherlock didn't want to disappoint his doctor by failing in protecting him; he didn't want to have to think  _'sorry John'_  just before they were hit by the resulting blast from the Semtex explosive that he was currently aiming his firearm at.

Of course; that all said and done, it doesn't really matter that much since he doesn't have a plan and he doubts he's going to get the chance to put any into action if the sheer number of glowing red dots swirling about his and John's persons are anything to go by. Still, can't blame a high-functioning sociopath from trying can you?

"Really Jim? Do tell since you're obviously such an intelligent  _boy_ ," Sherlock sneered in the way that is uniquely his; a mixture between curiosity and absolute scorn that it would soar over the heads of most of the mundane fools that Sherlock had to interact with daily just so he could try and elevate his boredom.

Moriarty's smile faltered for all but a fifth of a second and if Sherlock hadn't been watching his enemy he doubted that he would have picked it up; so Sherlock was able to shake even the great Jim was he? Interesting, now he's got to figure out how to use that to his advantage. Easy right?

"Well Sherlock," Moriarty waved a hand about in the same way that Sherlock had often witnessed his father doing when he'd been younger and his father had been trying to explain to him why he couldn't just tell one of his father's friends about the fact that they stunk of the cheap perfume of a call-girl; and it was something that Sherlock didn't like all that much. Too much of a reminder of how ostracised he'd been by his own family, "you can either pull that trigger and blow up this  _marvel_ lous looking bomb," Moriarty's voice rose in the same way Sherlock thought a child's would when in a toy shop; it was filled with a dramatic excitement and made Sherlock hate Moriarty more than he already did, "which by the way, I don't think even you're quick enough to beat my rather bountiful number of professional snipers," Moriarty smiled condescendingly at Sherlock and looked down at John who had dared not move from where he was partially crouched, leaning on the wall, "and I might just tell my shooters to make sure you don't die right away; so you can watch your precious Doctor Watson bleed out from a hole in his stomach, what do you think of that option hm?"

Sherlock's hand shook minutely as he grasped the weapon tighter and he fought with the almost insatiable urge to point the gun at Jim and blow that smile right off his bloody face! But that would most definitely doom both he and John; and he couldn't, he wouldn't, do that to the one man who seemed to actually give a damn about him beyond being a case-solver. He doubted Moriarty had seen the tremor in his hand, but he'd forgot the fact that John was much closer than Moriarty; and John was a doctor so of course he was trained to see something as minute as a slight tremor.

"Certainly not  _Jim_ ," Sherlock managed to ground out in a tone of voice just higher than that of a primal growl; this little fool was threatening his John! Well, that was definitely justification enough for him to shoot him but once again that would result in John's slow death by Moriarty's hands; he'd rather he killed John than that... monster, "so do tell; what is the  _other_  option?"

Moriarty scowled at Sherlock as he waved his hands about and answered rather maliciously, "maybe I'll remove that other option Sherlock? Maybe I'll make you watch as your lover-boy there dies whilst you can't do anything to stop it? Maybe I'll kill him myself? Maybe I'll thrust his head into this pool and let him thrash about until he drowns? Maybe I'll have  _you_  shoot him to save him from me?"

Sherlock's hand now did shake enough for Moriarty to see and Sherlock inwardly cursed his body for giving him away; but that was a momentary thought as Moriarty laughed mockingly at him and John looked at Sherlock in surprise, "Of course! Isn't it ironic hmm? The great Sherlock Holmes; the world's only consulting detective, has a weakness... and it's sitting less than two feet away from you!"  
Moriarty laughed again and, as if he'd somehow signalled the snipers, the swirling red dots on John suddenly aligned themselves almost perfectly; travelling in a straight-line from his forehead right down his chest to come to a stop when his the third button of his shirt was which Sherlock had accidentally pulled off when he'd been ripping that confounded bomb off of his doctor!

Sherlock took a breath; a deep long and calming breath that did for him what it seemed nicotine patches couldn't; it made his emotions sort themselves out into perfect order and his heart beat loudly in his ears, his blood gallivanted around his body faster than a racing horse pelted around the Aintree race-track, his eyesight sharpened and his hands became rock-solid steady.

Moriarty was spinning around, periodically laughing, and Sherlock quickly shifted his eyes from the manic power-freak onto John who too was staring at the rather crazy-looking Moriarty; but when he felt Sherlock's eyes on him, his gaze shifted back onto the man who seemed to be so deeply affected by Moriarty's taunts about his, John's, demise. The look in Sherlock's eyes seemed to be perfectly clear to John and belatedly he wondered when he'd acquired the ability to read Sherlock. It was so strange and weird that for some reason John thought it was entirely normal for the lives they led; they weren't exactly normal were they? No, more like certifiable.

It was look that John had seen in the eyes of soldiers who had thought they were going to die and that John was meant to be the one to live with their deaths as he helplessly watched the blood stain the sand and the metal twist and sharpen in the glaring sun of Afghanistan. No way. Not this time mate!

Doctor John Watson, once a Captain in the British Army,  _was not_  going to let Sherlock Holmes die; not now and not ever if he could manage it. So with a slight nod at his friend, and maybe one day something more, John acknowledged that Sherlock was planning on blowing up that bomb and then diving in front of John to save  _him_. Only John was going to do one better; he was going to save them  _both_.

"Jim," Sherlock said loudly, catching the attention of the world's one and only consulting criminal, "I do believe I've made my decision," Sherlock smiled rather darkly at Moriarty who had now stopped his foolish prancing and was focused entirely on Sherlock leaving John to slowly and covertly inch his way up the wall to the point where he wanted to be.

"Really? Well don't keep me waiting now Sherlock!" Moriarty exclaimed as he waved his hands in much the same manner one of John's old friends had done when he'd had too much to drink when they'd been out for the weekend back in med-school; like a half-dead chicken crossed with a dodo.

Sherlock continued to smile and he dramatically waved the hand that wasn't holding the loaded weapon in an attempt to distract both the snipers and Moriarty's attention on his other hand; and it worked, "this is my decision Jimmy!" he declared and with a final flourish of his free hand Sherlock pulled the trigger of the weapon in his hand and thought about the speed of a bullet as the sound of the bullet being fired echoed in his ears; but he didn't have much time to think about it when John barrelled into his with so much force that Sherlock felt like he'd been ran into by a rugby player.

The typical speed of a twenty-two calibre LR bullet is about 320 metres per second and Sherlock was positive that the average speed of sound was only 300 metres per second so that meant that when he'd fired the bullet it was about to impact with the bomb as he heard the obvious crack that came from an army-issue Browning L9A1. And he highly doubted he'd have ever survived if it hadn't been for that little ray of military capability that had thrown them into the chlorine filled pool of water which served to save both their lives.

Only he doubted John had considered the possibility of surviving the explosion and then drowning because he was now trapped underneath a piece of ceiling that had been inconsiderate enough as to fall into the pool just where he and John were. How he'd managed to swim out of the way was quite the mystery to Sherlock since he knew that he was no Olympic swimmer; as Mycroft had often reminded him. But John was trapped. No. John had just saved them, saved  _him_ , and now he was going to drown because of a piece of bloody metal! No. Absolutely not!

Sherlock kicked his way to the surface and gulped in several lungfuls of air before bravely diving back down to the bottom of the pool; luckily they had been near to the shallow end so it was no great distance, but it was still a problem. He gabbed hold of one of John's arms and tried to tug him out from under the twisted piece of metal that was resting across his waist but it was too heavy and Sherlock was too weak; he watched as John lost precious oxygen as he screamed out silently in the water and then the water began to turn reddish around his side. Sherlock did the only thing he could think of in the space of a second and his covered John's mouth with his own and gave his doctor as much oxygen as he possibly could before he had to swim back to the surface before he succumbed to oxygen-deprivation himself.

His head broke the surface and he thought he could hear the sound of sirens in the distance but that mattered little to him as he prepared himself to dive back under the water only to stop at the shout of his name by a voice he recognised.

"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft shouted as he ran towards the pool followed by several men clad in the standard uniform for the British Secret Air Service, the SAS.

Sherlock looked at his brother and shouted, or rather croaked, "John's trapped!" before he dove back under the water and swam down to his doctor who was holding his breath almost desperately; Damnit! He shouldn't have waited to say hi to Mycroft, John was trapped and didn't have the option to swim up to the surface and breathe because he was  _trapped_!

Sherlock quickly gave John as much precious oxygen as he could when he detected the change in the water as several men dived in and moved to help him with John; one of them had what looked to be a miniature breathing apparatus which they quickly gave to John so the guy could breath oxygen that wasn't coming from the mouth of a certified sociopath; even though the bottled air would probably taste stale it was far better than drowning Sherlock was sure.

Together the three SAS soldiers and Sherlock managed to lift up the piece of metal that had John trapped, though Sherlock nearly dropped it when he saw how much pain they were causing John, and the fourth SAS solider who was beside John pulled him away from the metal which Sherlock let go of the moment John was free. As the fourth SAS soldier pulled John up through the water towards the surface a trail of red blood behind his and Sherlock avoiding swimming through as his head broke the surface of the water just after John and the fourth SAS soldier did.

Sherlock helped John and the SAS soldier reach the edge of the pool and he climbed out, resolutely ignoring both Mycroft with his constant questions about him and Moriarty and his own thoughts which were screaming at him to either start crying or stop caring; and he was going to neither as he helped haul John out of the pool before he was unceremoniously shoved aside by the SAS medic who began to order the other soldiers to do this and that.

Sherlock sat on the cold floor as he watched the medic work on his friend, his doctor and he couldn't help but think that this was all wrong. John was the army doctor. John was the one who was meant to work and save people, not someone working on John to save him. It was so... wrong... so unnatural and he wanted to shout and tell everyone that it was so wrong.

And that was the last thing he could clearly remember thinking as the world blurred, as John blurred, and everything was replaced by a strange and weird darkness which Sherlock reasoned was what normal people experienced when they passed out; but he wasn't normal so why was he experiencing it too? Oh, needle with a sedative in his arm from another medic might explain that one.  
John... he's meant to be alright... he's the doctor... he's not meant to be a patient... he needs to be okay...

And Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, finally slipped away from the conscious world and into the dark and blissful black of unconscious.

* * *

 " _ **A broken man surrounds himself with broken people and broken things... it is his way of being normal in a chaotic and broken world." -**_ **Kasey**

* * *

 Oh noise. Noise is about as useful as Anderson is at a crime scene; i.e. not very besides being a constant annoyance. Why wouldn't it stop? Why can't it be quiet? Why- oh right. Consciousness was noisy. Naturally. It was mostly unimportant, noise that is, but at times when your eyes are too heavy and you have neither the strength nor the inclination to drag your eyelids back and survey the world, noise can be quite useful in discerning as to where you are.

There was the obvious sound of people, oh people! Heavens does he hate people... they just can't stop thinking about their inconsequential lives long enough for them to actually see what he does.

But the sounds of these people weren't your usual and average noises, oh heavens does that sound wrong to an inferior mind? The sounds these people were making were sickly coughs and weak moans of pain and tiredness, so he was somewhere where the ill were. Yes, isn't that assisted by the constant and continuous beeping of what he guessed was a heart-monitor; he doesn't know the correct term but he's sure John does, John's the doctor afterall.

John. Where is John? Why isn't he here? Where's John?

He opened his eyes and tries to sit up only for the newly seen world to spin and everything to make him feel like he's coming down from having too many nicotine patches again; and wasn't John pleased when he'd had to clean up the mess he'd made during that time?

He heard someone coming over to him, saying words but he didn't want to hear them so he didn't listen to them; he lay there waiting for his equilibrium to return to him before he bravely opened his eyes and slowly sits up, still ignoring whoever the hell is blathering on in his ear and trying to gently push him back down. Bloody people. Always getting in his way!

But John isn't people, John's John and he doesn't get in his way; he helps him, he clears the road and paves the way for him to run around London and keep his mind busy. John's not people; John's his. His. And he isn't one for sharing.

"Please Mr Holmes you shouldn't be sitting up yet," the nurse or whatever says to him as she pathetically tries to restrain him and he knows that if it had been John telling him to lie back down and rest he would have grumbled and pretended like he didn't want to but ultimately he would have done what John told him because John was a doctor, an army doctor, and if he told him to lie down then it was for a good reason.

This nurse however was not John so Sherlock didn't have any qualms about completely ignoring her except to give her quite the withering glare as he shook off her grip on his arm. He slipped out of the bed or whatever he was in, hospital bed, hospital ward; looks like Darwin to him but he hasn't seen that many hospitals besides their morgues and the private sections which he'd always been to when younger. He looks about trying to see John, he must be here, maybe he's in a private room or something like that? Yes, that must be it, afterall John's a doctor. It makes sense that they'd have favouritism for doctor's in a hospital doesn't it?

"John," he calls out for some absurd notion because it's not as if John's in hearing distance, if he was then he'd have seen him already, so why was he calling out? Why was he feeling like something was wrong? Why did he-

A Bomb... that's what was wrong!

A bomb-vest on John, a red dot prancing across his chest, his face holding back the terror and fear that Sherlock knew he felt.

Oh my...

No more bomb on John... it's on the floor now... Moriarty!

Sherlock wobbled slightly as his mind suddenly unleashed a flurry of memories and feelings that he'd already felt before but had apparently forgot; was this what normal people felt when they had flashbacks? If so then it was no wonder that John sometimes cried after waking from a nightmare Sherlock realised. It's like you're reliving it all over again. Not nice.

Boom... fire... smoke... water?

The nurse grasped Sherlock's arm as he continued to sway and with a little effort she directed him back to his bed which he damn-near collapsed on as another memory came to the fore which made his heart scream and his eyes water.

John trapped... dying... drowning... bleeding... not breathing... dying... John!

It couldn't be... his doctor. His doctor! No! It couldn't be... it just couldn't. It was inconceivable, no it was beyond inconceivable. It was completely impossible! John...

He couldn't breathe, why couldn't he breathe? He feels like he's breaking... breaking? Cracking, tearing, falling apart, he's shattering into pieces so small that no-one could ever hope of putting them back together to make him the way he was. Even if you had every piece it wouldn't be the same because it'd be glue holding him together, he wouldn't be whole, he been cracked and minute pieces would be missing from him. Pieces like John in his life...

"Mr Holmes?" the nurse asks as Sherlock feels a tear roll down his cheek. He's crying. That can't be either. It's about as impossible as John being gone. Sherlock doesn't cry. He doesn't. So why is he crying now?

"John..." he croaks, his voice is failing him, it's showing how human he really is; no that can't be. He's a high-functioning sociopath. He's not human, he's not like other people; he doesn't care. But that's a lie and he knows it.

Oh yes, it's easy to fool the fools but to joke with a jester you've got to be the best and willing to use any material; that was why Moriarty knew he cared because Moriarty,  _Jim_ , was well and truly the most effective sociopath that ever existed. Sherlock was like a huggable teddy bear compared to Moriarty in that respect.

"Who's John Mr Holmes?" the nurse asks. Such as stupid question from such a stupid fool! Who is John? John is his! John is... John. How can he explain just who Doctor John Watson, ex-soldier in the British Army, is to such a fool? How can he explain just who John Watson is to him? He doesn't think he can so he does the best he can do with such a fool and with such a mental block.

"John Watson... he's a doctor," he answers as he looks about himself; he needs John, he needs to see him to know he's okay, that he's alive. He needs to see his doctor! Where is he? Why isn't he here? He should be here!

"Does he work here?" the nurse asks, of course she doesn't know and she doesn't understand; she thinks he means one of those fools that walks around with a bloody stethoscope around their neck and throwing out orders as they try and make themselves more important than they really are. He wants to chase her away, make her go away in tears and he could, oh heavens could he! Well, he could if he could focus his mind on something not John-related. He already knows she's divorced and is a serial adulterer; probably why she's divorced, he already knows that she's not a natural blonde and that she's slept with half the staff on this ward; not that that's a surprise in this day-and-age. But that's all he's got because that's all he's allowing himself to see, what with his focus on John and not on such a mundane fool as this bloody nurse!

"No... he's-" Sherlock stops in his clarification that John's a patient. What if John isn't a patient? What if John's not even breathing anymore? He can see the medic working on him, trying to save him. He can see John stopping, his breaths ceasing, he can see... no! It's his imagination! John would never die! Not ever! John doesn't want to die so he won't die because Sherlock says he won't! And Sherlock's always right!

"He's a patient, he was in an explosion with me," Sherlock swallows and he explains to miss adulteress, what John looks like and what he can remember of the injury John suffered, tactfully ignoring the vivid flashbacks he's getting; if he didn't know any better he could swear that he had PTSD, but that was preposterous, "he's approximately five foot six, sandy-blonde hair, funny button-like nose, interesting green eyes and tends to scowl when he's either angry, annoyed or generally bored; but his smile is fantastic," is that nurse looking at him fondly? Why would she be looking at him like that? Strange, "he was in an explosion with me, he was trapped underneath a piece of metal roofing and I believe it pierced his side; and I'm afraid that's all I know," now she looked sad and sympathetic; oh no... Did she know who he was talking about? Did she know where John was? Why did she look sad? Was he- no! Not going there again Sherlock! "Do you know where he is?"

He smiled at her, trying to charm her but it seemed that it didn't work because she shook her head; maybe his smile wasn't as charming as he'd planned for it to be? "I don't sorry Mr Holmes. But I'll try and find out where he is for you. Heaven knows I was as worried as you when my boyfriend was in a car crash last year; I couldn't stop fretting about him."

Boyfriend? So she isn't a serial adulterer... unless the boyfriend was the one she got divorced over? Hmm... Wait a moment... she thought that John was his boyfriend? How novel! How wishful of her... if only John was his... But he remembered how John was always quick to deny that he was his boyfriend whenever they were out in public, and wasn't it funny when an acquaintance had called John Sherlock's escort? Well, it had been to him but John hadn't seen the funny side of it; and Sherlock hadn't when John had began to throw things at him when they'd got back to Baker Street. He'd made a mental note to avoid John when he was in a throwing mood; the doctor's aim was far too good for him to dodge the thick volumes being launched across the room at him.

Sherlock watched as she walked off towards the nurse's station and was debating over whether or not it would be productive to try and escape the ward so he could look for John on his lonesome when a rather familiar face came swanning into the ward through the doors on the opposite side of the ward. Sherlock scowled at his brother who made a beeline straight for him and he truly wanted to run off and find John because he didn't want to have to deal with Mycroft and his stupid, pointless, predictable questions.

And maybe that was why he wasn't expecting what Mycroft said the moment he reached Sherlock's bed.

"Doctor Watson is alright Sherlock, you can stop fretting about him; he's healing quicker than you are and his injury was far more serious than your little cut on your head," Mycroft smiled and Sherlock automatically reached a hand up to his forehead, and winced when he touched a stitched cut on his forehead. It took Sherlock a moment to realise what Mycroft had actually said about John so he was still scowling at his brother when his mind let him in on what it knew.

"John's alright?" Sherlock almost whispered and if he'd been attentive and not in a mixed state of relief, shock and disbelief, he might have noticed his brother's raised eyebrow at how emotional his younger brother was actually being about an ex-army doctor.

"Yes Sherlock. He's alright, though I think he might be in need of that walking stick of his for a while yet," Mycroft nodded as Sherlock slumped back in the bed, staring at his brother in an almost glazed stupor.

Then, as if someone had personally removed that blasted mental block that was over-emotionalised fear, Sherlock dived off the bed and hugged his brother in such a flamboyant and dramatic way that Mycroft truly wasn't expecting it, "He's alive! He's alright! Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed happily as he squeezed his brother tightly and let him go, his face shining with joy and his eyes alight with happiness in such a way that Mycroft truly thought his brother had either gone completely insane or had suddenly developed the ability to show his feelings. Both of which wouldn't last with his brother; nothing much ever did with Sherlock.

But John had lasted this far and Sherlock wanted him to last even longer. Sherlock wanted John to be by his side for years to come and he'd be damned if Jim Moriarty was going to change that!

"I want to see him," Sherlock declared as he gained some control on his emotions, just as that nurse came over and smiled at him; no doubt she too knew John was alive and better yet she would know where he was.

"Of course Mr Holmes, but you're going to have to be in a wheelchair; I don't want you having any funny turns on your way up to Mr Watson," the nurse smiled and Sherlock scowled again; a wheelchair. How... humiliating. He had half-a-mind to refuse but that would mean that he wouldn't be able to see John and he really wanted to see John.

He nodded and the nurse moved off to snatch a spare wheelchair and Mycroft took the moment to look at his brother properly, taking in every aspect of the happy and cheery man his brother had apparently become; his brother had become more human from the day that he'd met John Watson and Mycroft wasn't entirely sure whether or not that was a good thing. Heaven knows that Sherlock was a nightmare when he'd been working alone, but now he was worse than ever because he had someone he could impress, someone who was able to put up with him, someone who was able to teach him how to be human. It made Sherlock Holmes a far more dangerous man to anyone who dared hurt someone he cared for as Mycroft was sure people were soon going to discover in the near future.

The nurse returned and Sherlock almost dived into the wheelchair and with a childish shout of , "let us go rescue the damsel!" the nurse and Sherlock were off down the ward towards the lift with Mycroft following behind thinking that John Watson was indeed a good thing for his brother afterall; who else could invoke such behaviour from the calm, composed and emotionally-reticent Sherlock Holmes?

The answer; no-one other than Doctor John Watson.

* * *

" _ **Lights will guide you home**_

_**And ignite your bones** _

_**And I will try to fix you..." – Fix You, Coldplay** _

* * *

 

His leg bounced conveying his impatience as he waited for the lift to open and discharge them on the floor John was on; John was on another floor, higher up and Sherlock was sure that meant something important but his mind was either still addled by whatever sedative or such they'd given to him or the gash on his forehead was the only external sign of a mild concussion, and Sherlock guessed it was a mixture really.

The silence in the lift is annoying, but Sherlock's head feels like it's about to explode; moreso than usual at least, and he needs to do something, to say something to stop them thinking because thinking hurt. However his mind actually floundered for something to speak about with either the nurse or Mycroft; oh John would probably laugh at the situation! Him, Sherlock Holmes, wanting to make  _small talk_  with his brother, of all people!

Sighing audibly he drew a questioning gaze from Mycroft but he choose to ignore it as he tapped his thigh with his long, slender fingers and looked at the drab decor of a hospital lift; the word boring didn't do the lift justice, it was beyond boring and Sherlock was relatively certain that he brother might one day use lift-torture as a means of getting a confession from people. Heaven knows Sherlock would confess to anything if he was stuck in the lift for any longer than was absolutely necessary.

"Doctor," he muttered quietly as he continued to drum his fingertips on his thigh; his voice was loud enough to be carried around the small, enclosed space but was also quiet enough for it to not echo as most voices would in such a confined space. He felt the gaze of Mycroft settle upon him and he knew that his brother was thinking about what he'd just said before the confusion would be left behind as realisation dawned on the older Holmes sibling; Sherlock still thought of his brother as intelligent but not as brilliant as Mycroft thought he was.

"I'm sorry Mr Holmes," the nurse frowned, apparently the lack of intelligence was still a running constant in the general populace and Sherlock begrudgingly cursed his genes as well as thanked them; he could never be that stupid, at least he thought he couldn't.

Mycroft tapped his umbrella, seriously Sherlock thought the thing was surgically-attached to his brother's arm, and looked at Sherlock in partial warning; he knew him too well did old Mycroft. Sherlock suppressed the urge to snort and laugh at his brother's attempts to temper him as well as the urge to call the nurse every name he could think of in such a manner as to have the result of her looking and feeling even stupider than she already was.

Tempering his automatic dismissal and insults Sherlock sighed and waved an ivory pale hand as he explained, "It's Doctor Watson, not Mister," he craned his neck slightly so as to better see the nurse who was looking down at him wearing that damned expression she'd been sporting back on the ward, "he should be addressed by his correct title," he said firmly, and that did not sound defensive at all, nope not one bit.

The nurse nodded and Sherlock looked away purposefully, so he wouldn't be able to figure her out, as she answered in a disturbingly patronisingly kind voice, "of course Mr Holmes; I'll make the correction on his charts myself."

Then there was silence again and Sherlock could just  _feel_  Mycroft's mirth at the entire situation; stupid Mycroft, stupid nurse, stupid Moriarty, stupid bomb, stupid him, heck even stupid John for getting hurt in the first place! He wouldn't even be behaving like this if he wasn't concerned with the matter of having to find a new flatmate; that was why he was concerned about John, oh and the fact that he had a very good aim and could save Sherlock's life but that was it! No other reason. At all. End of discussion. Sort of...

A typically boring 'bing' sound echoes around the lift and Sherlock silently thanks the doors as they open to reveal an empty corridor that seems depressing and lethargic; which is in direct contrast to Sherlock's eccentricity and anxiousness. The nurse pushed him out of the lift, with Mycroft following closely behind keeping an eye on Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't care about Mycroft or the nurse or the fact that he was being pushed around whilst he was perfectly capable of walking because his mind had just revealed to him that it can have a single-minded focus on something other than a case; and that something was John Watson, the limping soldier of Sherlock's dreams.

As they came closer and closer to the area where John was Sherlock took in the signs and code-locks on the doors; why was John in such a secured place? Was he in danger? Was he a danger? No, Sherlock dismissed that thought the moment it breezed into his head; John wouldn't, couldn't, be a danger to others since the man had a major-thing about feelings and guilt. If Sherlock didn't know any better, which he did of course since he was the great Sherlock Holmes, then he would have guessed the John felt guilty for everything that happened in the world; luckily though, it seemed that the army-doctor only felt guilty for things that affected either himself or Sherlock directly. Thank the heavens really because Sherlock truly had no clue as to how he would handle a guilt-ridden man if he blamed himself for the day succumbing to the night.

When the nurse finally keyed in her code, which Sherlock and Mycroft both noticed but didn't draw attention too, Sherlock was giddy with excitement; though he would never admit it, and was now fidgeting with his clasped hands. Mycroft strolled behind the nurse and his younger sibling as they made a bee-line for a private room which looked more like an interrogation room with a bed in it rather than a table that Mycroft briefly considered the notion of insisting that his brother and his colleague go private in regards to their healthcare. The oldest of the two Holmes brothers watched as the nurse opened the door to the private room and Sherlock almost dived out of the wheelchair; and Mycroft rather suspected that he would have indeed succeeded had it not been for the nurse who, had some rather impressive reflexes, gripped his shoulder and kept him firmly in the wheelchair.

Mycroft could see that Sherlock was gearing himself up to insult the nurse using his rather expansive vocabulary and was about to step forward and distract his brother when Sherlock's attention shifted entirely and he merely stared into the room he was currently on the threshold of. Mycroft blinked, his mind confused slightly as to why Sherlock wasn't doing his usual anti-social habit when he realised what the reason behind Sherlock's shifted attention and disregard for the nurse.

He stepped closer towards the threshold, just to be certain, and felt himself quietly gasp in shock even though he had already seen this before but... no wonder Sherlock was so silent. John Watson, Sherlock's John, was lying in a bed; his chest bare except for the thick bandage that was wrapped around his middle, attached to almost every medical machine that Mycroft had even heard of. Mycroft suddenly felt bad for his brother; if this was what Mycroft's reaction was he could just imagine what Sherlock must be feeling.

Though he and Sherlock would often beg to differ on their feelings for their respective siblings there was little that Mycroft wouldn't do to help Sherlock; and by that admission, anyone who was with Sherlock. Mycroft moved silently over towards his younger brother, who looked oh so young and vulnerable right now that it hurt Mycroft to see him so raw, and gently rested a hand on his shoulder; a hand that Sherlock made no attempt to shrug off or even acknowledge. It was almost as though Sherlock had shut down.

"It's not as bad as it looks Mr Holmes," the nurse said quietly as she moved gently past Mycroft and pushed Sherlock's wheelchair into the room, "he's had a few problems with his blood pressure but for the most part he's healing perfectly well," the nurse smiled as she stopped the wheelchair just at the edge of the bed; close enough for Sherlock to easily reach out and grasp one of John's limp and lifeless-looking hands.  
"Doesn't mean I feel like it," John slurred out slowly, his voice low and quiet as he painfully opened his eyes and looked away from the ceiling, which he had such a fantastic view of from the five-star hotel Ritz he was in; and that wasn't sarcasm at all was it? His eyes caught sight of Sherlock looking, for all the world, like a lost and uncertain child and John felt something inside of him twist and shout at him because he was the one who'd caused this look on Sherlock's face; he'd caused Sherlock pain and he'd never wanted that.

"John?" Sherlock almost whispered, as though he was afraid that John was merely a dream and that he was hallucinating this entire thing. If John hadn't felt so very lousy then he was sure he would have laughed; but laughing hurt and he'd really had enough of pain for the last few  _decades_ , nevermind days. Sherlock looked at the face of his friend, his colleague, his flatmate, his-something else, and tried to decipher what he saw flitting across the tired, worn but still handsome features; he could see hurt, pain, guilt, sadness, happiness, elation and so many other things but the ones that Sherlock saw the most were hurt, pain, guilt and sadness. In his mind John shouldn't be feeling any of those things; this was Sherlock's fault, what with his stupid need for sporting games and stuff, and here John was trying to blame himself. No. Sherlock wasn't goin to have that; it was stupid, illogical and so totally John-like of John that Sherlock really wished for a moment that he was a different person, but he knew that he wouldn't care as much as he did about John if he were to be another person. John was John and Sherlock liked him like that. A lot.

"It wasn't your fault you know?" Sherlock said softly, not taking his eyes off of John's face but he lightly grasped one of John's outstretched hands, "It wasn't your fault you had a bomb strapped to you by an absolute raving lunatic. And before you even bother to be so mundane as to mention the fact that we nearly died and such you need to remember one important thing," Sherlock's hand tightened slightly around John's own and they both looked at each other intently; ignoring the existence of Mycroft and the nurse, "You were willing to die to save me and then, when I truly thought everything was over,  _you_  saved us both. You. Not me. Not the great Sherlock Holmes. I was saved by a very normal, very average, very  _brilliant_  ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic pain in his right leg which does and doesn't always exist," Sherlock smiled at John and continued, "I was saved by a man who had only moments ago faced death in a way I've never before experienced and you bounced back in time to save us both. And..." Sherlock trailed off as he tried to control the emotions that were threatening to over-take his reason; and as he swallowed thickly he was sure that he heard the sound of the door clicking shut as Mycroft and the nurse finally gave them the privacy they deserved. Oh God he wanted to consult his skull on what to do next! Blinking back the tears that Sherlock shouldn't have been creating the detective ploughed on in his speech to a still partially-dumbstruck doctor, "And when we were in the pool and you were trapped under that bloody  _piece of metal_ ," he snarled as though the metal was at fault for all of this, "and I couldn't get you out; I was powerless to help you and I hated myself for it and I so wanted to drag you to the surface and save you but I couldn't because I'm one man against a world and I couldn't save you until Mycroft and his men came. They saved you; I was just there for the ride," Sherlock finally looked away and to his surprise he felt a tear roll down his high cheekbone and down the length of his face.

He felt awful, worse than awful, he would have preferred to have been in a meat locker for a week in sub-zero temperatures before going to battle against an entire gang of half-crazed ritualistic murderers than to continue to feel like this; he did not feel so hollow and guilty and bad. He did not! But he did. He was now. And he didn't know if he should hate it or be grateful for it. He cared about John Watson and it seemed that his emotions, his mind, his body was all agreeing on this mutual interest.

"If you hadn't of given my air, excluding the manner in which you did, then I wouldn't have been alive long enough for Mycroft's men to go heroic on me would I?" John muttered quietly as he gripped Sherlock's hand tight enough to get the man to raise his head and look at him, "Of course you saved my life Sherlock! No-one else can save my life, it isn't allowed; part of the 'being-your-friend/colleague/flatmate-clause'."

Sherlock looked at John in absolute surprise and, for once, he let it show on his face. John had just forgiven him and tried to alleviate Sherlock's guilt and now he was joking with him! Only John Watson, Sherlock decided, would do such a thing, and Sherlock smiled as he chuckled and John smirked at him.

"You are extraordinary do you realise that John?" Sherlock smiled as he leant forward in the wheelchair until he was about an inch or two from John's face. Sherlock's face was bright but not in the usual way it was whenever he had a case or a new plan, puzzle or down-right deadly experiment. No, his face was bright in a way that John had never really seen before and it took him a moment to recognise the look on Sherlock's face; it wasn't as if he knew what some emotions looked like on Sherlock, the man was a walking-contradiction in more than one meaning of the word.

As John breathed out, his chest heaving slightly as he tried to order his body to behave because it really wouldn't do for anything to happen now, he smiled feeling almost light-headed as he breathed out a quiet, low response, "I'm sorry to say that I didn't Sherlock."

Sherlock's smile grew wider as he leaned in even closer to John's face and John felt Sherlock's breath on his face; hot, warm, desirable. Oh Gods and Goddess! "Well, I suppose I'm going to have to tell you that over and over and  _over_ ," Sherlock's free hand traced a pattern across John's chest and John fought the urge to groan, "until you can figure it out for yourself."

John panted his chest and side hurting but he didn't care about that because Sherlock was his main focus, "it might take me a while to figure... it out Sherlock; afterall... I'm not exactly the sharpest... knife in the box..." John's head lolled back against the pillow slightly as Sherlock's hand continued to play along his chest.

"Mm... maybe not but you're definitely one of the most  _extraordinary_..." Sherlock whispered as he grinned and stopped running his hands along John's chest, much to John's dismay, "and if you want me to show it to you anytime soon you're going to have to get better; fast."

John would have glared at Sherlock but he found that he was breathing too heavily and his mind was already being overrun by sinful little soldiers, so all he did was growl quietly at Sherlock who laughed loudly enough for Mycroft and the nurse to hear.

Mycroft tentatively opened the door slightly, almost as if he was afraid of what he might see, and noticed that Sherlock was laughing and John... well John looked to be torn between groaning and shouting at the eccentric man who was evidently finding John's  _distress_  amusing. Mycroft resisted the urge to shake his head and cleared this throat before asking, in a purposefully grating and annoying tone that Sherlock had never been able to resist responding to, "so Sherlock. Have you quite finished traumatising the poor man? God knows how he's managed to put up with you for so long."

Sherlock stopped laughing and looked over his shoulder, Mycroft's presence had pulled him from his joy and it seemed that it was pulling John away from his mixed and confused state. The pair of them looked at Mycroft and Sherlock glared pointedly at Mycroft before saying, "at least someone can put up with me; where's your colleague I wonder?"

Though Mycroft knew that Sherlock was being defensive because of a mixture of earlier worry for Watson as well as fear over his own sudden vulnerability, the barb still hurt; only he was far better than Sherlock gave him credit for when it came to hiding from his feelings. He smirked at Sherlock and was about to respond when John cut across him.

"Your brother needs rest Mycroft, not a sparring match. Get the nurse who brought him; the one who's recently been divorced, to take him back to his bed and give him a sedative," Sherlock looked at John but John was focused on Mycroft who was staring at the hospitalised doctor with mixed feelings; he was being ordered about by a doctor and worse still, he was listening and already planning to do exactly what the man said!

"He's going to be a nightmare otherwise; also have them start an IV because if I know Sherlock, and I do, then he hasn't eaten properly or slept properly; he barely ate anything during our last case," John sighed as he leaned his head back and was about to continue when Sherlock cut across him, sounding rather like a petulant child.

"I'm right here you realise?" he muttered loudly enough for both John and Mycroft to hear, but whilst Mycroft raised an eyebrow John ignored him and continued to speak as though Sherlock hadn't said a thing.

"I'd recommend soups and possibly light-meals for the next few days. From what I can tell from my current position; he's got a mild concussion, slight bruising across his chest; if the wheelchair and the lack of spontaneous movement is anything to go by, and he obviously can't stand on his own two feet for long otherwise he wouldn't be in the chair. Simple," John finished as he closed his eyes and waited for the sounds of a response from Mycroft; partially surprised when he didn't hear anything. He opened his eyes and looked at Mycroft and Sherlock; who were both staring at him with rather surprised and intrigued gazes, "what?"

"Extraordinary," Mycroft said softly as he stared at John with an incredibly intrigued gaze, "it's almost as if he has his own form of deductive skills Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't respond as he looked at John with shock and instead asked quietly, "how did you get all of that in five minutes?" John was sure that he could hear genuine curiosity in Sherlock's voice but there was something else, something that made John pause in answering; it was almost as though Sherlock was scared of his response because he might reveal something...

"Um..." John shrugged his unbruised shoulder, "I just saw; I'm a trained doctor afterall. We're taught to notice signs of injury," he dodged answering with a full truth and instead settled on a half-truth since he too wondered how he'd managed to get all of that in five minutes; less actually since Sherlock had kept him distracted for a good two or three minutes. Oh God! He was the Sherlock of medicine! God help him...

Mycroft could see that John was telling a partial truth and felt curious as to why the man hadn't answered completely, but he didn't want to continue to question the man about something when Sherlock was feeling particularly protective of the injured man. Sighing Mycroft swung his umbrella around and opened the door, signalling for the nurse to come in as he said, "well come on Sherlock! We'd best leave the doctor to his rest; heaven knows he needs it from the way he looks."

"I'm flattered," John muttered dryly as he gave Mycroft a half-glare which was returned by a smirk of amusement, "buggar off and let me sleep," he said as he closed his eyes and almost  _molded_  himself into the mattress. John was sure that Sherlock was going to protest at the dismissal but it seemed that the detective was just as tired as John was and wasn't making a sound.

Of course, the reason why Sherlock wasn't making a sound was because he was using sign language to tell the nurse to be quiet and to give him one moment; and when the nurse begrudgingly gave him his moment Sherlock leant forward almost silently in the wheelchair but John's seasoned hearing caught the sound, and leaned in close to John's ear where he whispered something that the nurse and Mycroft couldn't hear; but they could both see the heart monitor suddenly spike before returning to normal.

John's eyes opened and he looked at Sherlock who sat back in his wheelchair and motioned that he was ready to leave. John's eyes never left Sherlock's form as the man was wheeled out of the room and just before the door closed after Mycroft, who was last to leave, John thought he heard the sound of Sherlock shouting, "Quicker you heal the quicker we can prove you're extraordinary John!"

Damn you Sherlock... now he wasn't going to get any relaxing rest until they gave him the next sedative; two hours ago, "I'm going to kill him..." he muttered as he ran a heavy hand down his face, "and the violin's going to get it as well."

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this forever ago and posted it on FF.Net, but I've decided to move everything over onto A03 since this is where I'm most active in terms of writing. I hope people like it and if you see any mistakes just tell me off (I'm awful at noticing mistakes, I really am).  
> Kathryn xx


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